


Untitled

by Lumen_Caeli



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Christmas Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 02:16:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3101570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumen_Caeli/pseuds/Lumen_Caeli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wrote this for an LJ Hetalia community secret santa gift exchange back in 2009. It's just been sitting on my hard drive, so how about instead I just have it sit on the internet?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled

France wonders when it was that he first realized that he was in love. 

“I’m only doing this because my hands are cold, not because I want to hold yours,” The grumpy Englishman beside him declares, his rather prominent eyebrows furrowing at France’s smile.

“Of course, mon cher, of course.”

As they watch the snowflakes drift down, England slips his hand into France’s. France can’t help but notice how much softer they are than they used to be – the difference between 1000 years ago and today. Bowstrings and swords have been traded in for sternly worded documents and longwinded meetings. 

With his free hand, England adjusts his scarf, pulling it up to his nose . “Don’t know why I’m out here,” he mumbles through the fabric, “‘s bloody cold.”

“But it is romantic, don’t you agree?” France replies, “Strolling hand in hand through the park on Christmas eve? Curling up together by a warm fireplace afterwards?”

“Romantic? Sounds more like a thinly disguised plot to get into my trousers.” despite how scathing he sounds, England doesn’t pull his hand away. If France didn’t know England better, he’d have missed the tiny smile that peeked over the top of the scarf. 

“How cruel of you,” France places a hand to his heart, as though wounded. “I am, after all, the country of love. There’s more to love than just the pleasures of the flesh. Besides,” and with this, he leans in close enough to warm England’s ear with his breath as he whispers, “we can postpone that part till tomorrow, if you’d prefer?”

England turns to reply, tilting his head in such a way that his lips are tantalizingly close to France’s. It’s not exactly a clear invitation but France takes it anyway, touching their lips together in a sweet kiss that lingers one second too long to be platonic put one second too few to be passionate. 

“I never said you could do that, stupid frog,” England says when their lips part, the smirk on his face turning the insult into a strange sort of pet name. This has ever been their way, which is why France can’t remember when things first changed between the two of them. When did the endless jibes at each other’s expenses first morph into playful teasing? France wonders, but can’t recall. Such a gradual thing, little by little over the course of the centuries, until disdain changed into affection and drunken flings had turned into making love.

And as France mouths ‘may I?’ and England whispers back ‘If you insist,’ France pulls his lover into his arms and decides that it doesn’t matter if he never finds the answer. The warmth of England’s embrace is the only answer he needs.


End file.
